He finds my clit, merciless with two rough fingers, making me flinch. “Say it again.”
“I’m not,” I sob, but it feels more and more like a lie.
Sutton bites down on my shoulder, and the bright-hot pain is enough to shatter me. A low keening sound fills the room, the sound of my longing, the terrible pleasure I take from it—and behind me, the agonized groan of a man pushed past reason. His hips press against mine, hard enough I have to gasp for breath, my mouth open against the embroidered fabric of the sofa, hands clenching at nothing, his tongue laving the teeth marks he left on my skin.
In the aftermath we collapse in a heap, the sofa giving a slight shift of discomfort under our combined weights. Sutton moves when I’m still boneless, lifting himself off me and turning me over. His hands are gentle as he pulls on my clothes. It’s like he’s mourning something.
“We should talk. Tomorrow at the library. We’ll talk then.”
I stop him, my hand clasping his. “Stay.”
He doesn’t look broken, but I’ve learned that it’s a beautiful facade. The intimacy we shared pulled down the walls, if only for a few seconds. Those calloused hands, so strong and sure with a dangerous horse, they’re shaking. He needs the comfort of welcoming arms as much as I do.
And so I lead him back to the sofa, where we fall into a sudden and boundless sleep, our limbs tangled together, taking solace in a shared desperation.
In my dream there are piles of straw, mountains of it, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t spin them into gold. My fingers are torn up from the attempts, bloodied and raw. There’s a lock on the door and a faint lightening of sky through the bars, which means the king will expect me to be done spinning soon. I’m running out of time.
I wake up with a sudden start, my eyes wide open as I look around the living room. A knock comes at the door, and I realize that must have woken me up. My palms are pressed to a chest as wide and solid as a table, but rising and falling in gentle breaths. Sutton looks up at me, rather adorable in his sleepy state. “You expecting someone?” he says, his voice rusty.
A glance at my phone. Four thirty. In the morning.
I pull open the door, half expecting there to be some kind of overly polite burglar. Who else shows up at four thirty? Christopher Bardot, apparently. He doesn’t even have the grace to look sleepy. Instead he leans casually against the doorjamb, one hand in the pocket of worn gray sweatpants. His white T-shirt looks like it’s been washed a million times and probably feels like heaven. I have no doubt that he stepped out of bed looking like this, which is proof that the universe is fundamentally unfair. My eyes feel bloodshot, the place between my legs sore.
“I hope there’s a bullet wound under that crisp white shirt,” I tell him, my voice dark with exhausted aggravation. “Because I can’t think of any other reason you’d be here at this time.”
“We have to talk.”
“About the meaning of life? About the birds and the bees? What could you possibly have to say to me at four thirty in the freaking morning that couldn’t wait for six hours?”
“It’s about the library. You can’t fix it.”
“Oh God, not this again.”
“The building isn’t fucking stable.”
“You’re not stable,” I say, knowing full well that I sound like a five-year-old. But it’s really early. Or late, depending on how you count it. All I know is that I’ve had about two hours of sleep. “Why don’t you just build your little skyscraper and pretend the library doesn’t exist?”
“I wish I could,” he says grimly.
I feel the heat of Sutton’s body before I hear him. “What’s going on?”
Christopher’s eyes darken. “What the hell is he doing here?”
Guilt shoots through me, which is seriously unfortunate because I don’t owe Christopher Bardot any explanations. My body doesn’t understand that. My body thinks it owes many things, and it decides to enumerate them using my imagination. “We’re braiding each other’s hair, and later we’re going to use my Ouija board. What do you think he’s doing here?”
“Harper, you can’t believe everything he tells you.” Christopher looks like he wants to say more, but he presses his lips together and looks away. “Hell.”
Sutton holds my hips in a possessive and challenging gesture. “That’s convenient coming from you. I think you’re the one she shouldn’t believe.”
“God,” I say, sleep clearing from my eyes. “You two just want to growl over me. It could be anything between you. I’m like a scrap of meat, and you’re just hungry.”
“You like it when I’m hungry,” Sutton says, placing an openmouthed kiss to the side of my neck. He pulls one hand up until it rests under my breast. The other curves around to the lower plain of my belly, right above my sex. It’s an incredibly intimate way to touch me, and I’m standing in the front door backlit by a soft lamp from inside.
Christopher’s jaw works. His whole body looks tense, a spring pressed down into its smallest form, vibrating with the force to keep it that way. What would he do if he unleashed that power? Would he attack Sutton with blind rage? Or would he take it out on me in sensual torment, like he did at the Den? I’m holding my breath, and I can’t deny that I hope for the latter. The three of us together are dysfunctional and wrong, but it feels so good.
“You want her?” Sutton asks gently, and I think he’s pushing. Not only for sex. He’s pushing until Christopher breaks. Until there’s no hope of them together.
And maybe I’m doing the same thing.
Sometimes the Death Plan isn’t printed in black-and-white. Sometimes it’s whispering to us in the middle of the night. Sometimes it’s leaning back against Sutton’s body, knowing it will make Christopher come closer. His lips part, looking full, almost swollen as he watches us from beneath heavy lids. What would he say if he saw us bent over the sofa?
I’m not in love with Christopher Bardot.
Fear squeezes my throat. I’d rather push him away than watch him leave. “Come inside,” I say with a patently fake smile. “It’s more fun with both of you.”
Christopher turns away from us, and I realize this hurts just as much. You can’t avoid this forever. I break away from Sutton’s hold and run after him. “Wait.”
He stops a foot away from his car, still looking away. His body is held rigid, emanating intense emotion without moving a muscle. “You shouldn’t trust him.”
“You used to tell me that I shouldn’t trust you either.”
“That’s true, too. Leave the both of us. Go back to New York. LA. Anywhere but here.”
“I can’t do that.” I can tell myself that it’s the library that keeps me here, but I have a growing suspicion that it’s the man in front of me. If he went to Tokyo, I’d probably have to protest to save the cherry blossoms. It’s a terrible weakness in me, this feeling.
“Or make him tell you the truth.”
That makes me smile, though it’s a little sad. “Do you know the truth?”
“What are you talking about?”